What We Want and What We Need
by Goodbye GoatHill
Summary: RW of ACD's "The Sign of Four" in contemporary BBC-Sherlock 'verse. mild possible pre-slash. 12 chapters. Please read and review! I will write an epilogue if people want one...
1. Chapter 1

**What We Want, and What We Need**

Here goes nothing: RW of ACD's "The Sign of Four" in the contemporary BBC Sherlock. Very mildly possibly pre-slash. Somewhat omniscient narrator. I'm not really a creative writer—this all just sort of happened. Rating: T, I guess, since people are killed, and I can't really imagine anyone younger than that having any interest in it. Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mary Morstan, Jonathan Small, other incidentals. Standard acknowledgement that I have no rights to the characters and such described herein. Thanks to Estella May on and Michael and John IRL for beta-reading. Some of my readers thought I changed it too much from the original; others thought I didn't change it enough. Let me know what you think! I'll post new chapters every few days….

**Chapter 1: In Which There are no Body Parts in the Milk**

John Watson swung the grocery bags into the flat, going straight to the kitchen to put things away. "I've got milk, and I don't want you soaking any body parts in it this time," he called out to Sherlock, whom he'd thought he'd glimpsed standing in the common room as he moved past.

"Just this once," the woman replied. Then, noticing John's surprise, she hurried to explain, "Your landlady let me in. She said someone would be along shortly, and that you wouldn't mind my waiting. I'm Mary Morstan." She extended her hand as she introduced herself. John wiped his hand on his jumper and extended it, smiling. "John Watson. You're American? …The accent," he added, tilting his head a little to show that it was meant as an explanatory aside.

"I am," she admitted. "I have a …. situation, and my boss, Cecilia Forrester, suggested I consult with Mr. Holmes. Apparently, he's helped her in the past." She was dressed warmly, in a thick grey cabled jumper and a large scarf, but she was overburdened. In addition to the large satchel she seemed to use for a purse, she hugged a large book bag to her chest.

"Well, he might be along soon. Or he might not. Hard to say, really. You're welcome to wait. Can I get you something?" John gestured towards the couch at "wait" and the kitchen at "something," a little at sea, alone with a woman in his own flat.

"I'll have tea if you're making it. Thank you, Dr. Watson," she spoke simply as she sat down on the rumpled couch, placing her bags carefully beside her.

"How, um, how did you know that it's Doctor?" John called from the kitchen.

"Your landlady is very friendly."

"Oh, yes. Yes, she is. Milk and sugar? Have you been waiting long?"

"Yes, please, milk and sugar, since there are no body parts in the milk." He glanced up sharply at that, she noticed, and smiled slyly at him. "I've not been here too long, I don't think. I was looking at your books, anyway. I tend to judge people by their libraries. Professional hazard, I suppose."

John brought the tea over. "What profession is that?"

"Librarian, of course."

He tilted his head; _That was a little on the nose_, he thought. "Well, what do our books tell you about us?"

She put the mug down and walked around the room; he admired the way she approached the bookshelves as though they were museum exhibits. "There appear to be a few different collections here; eclectic, well-used, and ill-kempt, for the most part. A lot of true crime, some of it really, really old, over here. No Truman Capote, though, which seems odd to me. You should really take better care of your books. Some of this Victoriana is probably pretty valuable." She kept walking, bending over a little to peer at the volumes. "A varied reference collection on this side of the fireplace. This one here seems especially rare" – she touched a volume on poisons, written in German – "_Gift _is such an interesting false cognate - and over here there's a neat little pile of history, historical fiction, and some poetry. The Rumi is yours, Dr. Watson?" she asked, bringing the volume back to the couch.

John cleared his throat. "Please, call me John. And, yes, I quite like Rumi and Hafiz." He sipped his tea, anxiously.

"Interesting," she said. "Which poem's your favorite, John?" She handed him the volume, picked up her tea, and leaned against the arm of the couch, tucking her legs under her. He glanced at her, then flipped through the book, trying to decide whether or not to show her the one which was his real favorite. A bit racy, that one, and he was lately disturbed by how it made him think about Sherlock; maybe one of the drinking poems would be less awkward. Not that she seemed awkward. She just sat there, drinking tea and observing him.

They talked about poetry and weather and the differences between American and England. At some point, she pulled out a little ball of wool and some knitting needles; he brought out more tea, and relaxed into the couch. By the time Sherlock actually appeared, John was in the middle of a rather funny story about something that had happened at the clinic the previous week. She seemed comfortable in her corner of the couch, knitting and enjoying his story, laughing at all the right times, and John was mildly impressed with himself – and very impressed with Mary Morstan.


	2. Chapter 2

**What We Want, and What We Need**

Chapter 2 of 12: RW of ACD's "The Sign of Four" in the contemporary BBC Sherlock. Very mildly possibly pre-slash. Somewhat omniscient narrator. I'm not really a creative writer—this all just sort of happened. Rating: T, I guess, since people are killed, and I can't really imagine anyone younger than that having any interest in it. Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade, Mary Morstan, Jonathan Small, other incidentals. Standard acknowledgement that I have no rights to the characters and such described herein. Thanks to Estella May online and Michael and John IRL for beta-reading. Some of my readers thought I changed it too much from the original; others thought I didn't change it enough. Let me know what you think! I'll post new chapters every few days….

**Chapter 2: Mary Explains **

"Who are you? John, why is there a nearsighted American librarian knitting on our couch?" Sherlock demanded.

She stood up, and, as she had before, extended a firm handshake. "Mary Morstan. Cecilia Forrester recommended I speak with you about my situation. I hope you will be able to help me, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock. Ah, yes, Cecilia Forrester." Sherlock recalled, or pretended to recall, his former client. "Have you been waiting long?"

"A little while, yes. But John has been kind enough to sit with me, and it's been quite pleasant." John smiled at this compliment to his hospitality. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, then turned to Mary. "Why didn't you see a doctor when you broke your foot?"

"My foot? It was ages ago. I was a teenager. I didn't tell anyone because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time when I broke it."

"Your parents didn't notice?"

"My parents didn't notice." She seemed unwilling to offer further information about her foot.

"You don't want to tell me about your foot, but you don't mind me observing you."

"I'm observing you. Turnabout is fair play." Mary was not perturbed by Sherlock's scrutiny, which pleased both John and Sherlock.

"All right. Let's hear about your situation," Sherlock prompted her, and flopped into the chair opposite her with a flourish.

"Right," she said, and sat down, opening the book bag to reveal a large portfolio with several manila folders inside. "This is my file. I'll explain as I go. My father was – or is, but I think was – British, and my mother was American. I was born there, in California, but my mother died in childbirth. My father was off in deepest darkest Africa, doing something neo-colonialist, no doubt, and my mother's family hated him and resented me. So I was put in foster care." She flipped the first few folders, gently pausing at one, before she looked up at Sherlock and then over to John. She smiled, weakly this time, then looked down at the folders before she continued her story. "I'm sorry to go so far back, but I don't know how else to tell it."

"That's all right," encouraged Sherlock. "Any detail might be helpful."

She looked up at him, bolder again. "When I was 15, I was put in a youth home, which is where they place unwanted teenagers until they age out of the system. I had three years to go, and I was aching to get out; I'd been in nine different homes already, and I didn't feel like CPS had anything else to offer me. I learned a lot in the youth home, actually. I'm pretty quick at hotwiring a car, and I'm really good at fake ID's. Anyway, one day I stole my file from my caseworker" – she tapped the stack in front of her – "and learned a number of new things. One was that my father had been looking for me for about ten years." She turned the pages and carefully pulled out a series of letters, each one color-coded with a sticky tab, handing them to Sherlock one at a time. "As you can see, he traveled quite a lot, and to many interesting places. You can imagine how excited I was. Every child in the system dreams of a rescuing parent. I wrote to the last address, and actually received a reply." She found that, and gave it to Sherlock as well. He looked at the letters, examining the paper – hotel letterhead from throughout Africa and Europe – and reading the letters, before passing them on to John, who glanced through them and tried to sort them into the right order.

"My father sent me a one way plane ticket, LAX to Heathrow. I didn't bother explaining any of this to the social workers, because I knew they would try to stop me. I packed up my file, my friends and I hotwired a car, and off I went to the airport. I just … walked away from my whole life. My father had arranged everything: a driver to meet me, a hotel to stay in, everything. He'd written that he was coming from Africa and might be delayed, but he would find me at the hotel." She shook her head. "I was a fool, you know?" This time she looked at John.

"He never appeared." Sherlock stated what he'd long since seen coming.

Mary shook her head. "After a few days, I began to search for him. I can tell you anything you might want to know about hotels in London." She smiled bleakly. John was rapt, but Mary could tell that Sherlock was impatient. It was time to move the story along. "I found the luggage in a really nice place in Belgravia. I mean, really nice. He'd been registered in the room for a week, but no one had seen him since the first day. They tried to get me to pay damages - the room was destroyed, the windows were broken, sheets were missing – it was a mess. The hotel didn't want to call the police; I guess it's bad press when your guests are violently kidnapped from their rooms. I didn't know what to do – I was afraid of being deported, of not being able to find my father if he did return, of so many things – so I went along."

John was sympathetic, encouraging: "How old were you then?"

"I was just under seventeen, and I don't mind telling you that I was in well over my head. I was used to taking care of myself, but this was something else. I was lucky, though. The Patels, who ran the hotel my father had put me in, took pity on me. They gave me a job, helped me with immigration, even moved me to the night desk when I got into school here. I still go to them every year for Diwali." She paused, and sipped her tea, putting the mug down a safe distance from her files.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Mary's Story Becomes Interesting to Sherlock**

"All right. Now we come to more current events. Five years ago, just after New Year's Day, I received a diamond." Sherlock, who had been lounging in his chair and staring at the ceiling, sat up and turned to look at Mary. Despite what he'd said to Mary earlier, all those personal details were a bit boring, but this was indeed very nearly interesting. "I've received one every year since then."

She dug through the purse until she came up with a small jewelry box, which she carefully handed up to Sherlock, who was standing by now, hand outstretched. John stood up beside him; Sherlock showed him the open box. John let out a low whistle. "Those are … pretty nice."

They were, and Sherlock could tell them how nice: "About two and a half carats apiece – this one is three ... point six – very clear, masterfully cut. You have interesting friends, Miss Morstan. How were they delivered?"

She was standing beside them now. "Mary, please. They were slid under my door at home. I have the envelopes. Then, last night I received this letter." She handed Sherlock the letter and its envelope, and several other envelopes, with little bits of tissue inside, each one in a plastic page protector.

"Oh, good, you kept the envelope. And the envelopes from the diamonds! You are an excellent archivist, Mary."

"Professional hazard," she said, smiling a little at John. _Is this an inside joke?_ John wondered, returning her smile.

Mary turned back to Sherlock. "And now you see my situation. I can't help but think that I should accept this invitation, and I'm bold enough to hope that you might be interested enough to join me. My plus two, I suppose."

Sherlock read the note, flipping it back and forth. He then examined the envelope on all sides, finally peering inside it. "This was hand delivered to you? At your flat or at the library?"

"It was slid under my front door at home, same as the diamonds."

"Well, of course, we must all go. This seems to be … not boring. Possibly interesting. What do you say, John? A little rendezvous with treasure and destiny tomorrow evening?" Sherlock clapped his friend on the back and handed him the letter. John read:

_Be at the third pillar from the left outside the Lyceum Theatre Friday night at nine o'clock. If you are distrustful, bring two friends. You are a wronged woman and shall have justice. Do not bring police. If you do, all will be in vain. _

_Your unknown friend._

John nodded. He was interested in the mystery, and interested in Mary, too. He handed the letter back to her, saying, "Tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow, then," Mary replied.

"Well, how about having dinner tonight? Angelo's is not too far." John offered. It was a gamble, but it seemed worth a try.

Mary smiled, while Sherlock stood behind her, glaring over her shoulder at John. "That's very kind, John, but I think I'll take a rain check." His blank face told her that her idiom was too American. "Not tonight, sorry. I'll take your number, and we can find another day, OK?"

After she packed her files and left, John turned a broad smile on Sherlock:

"Well, she certainly seems nice."

"Seems. One of the most pleasant women I've ever met poisoned a series of husbands. But she did it pleasantly."

"Mary is not a poisoner; you can see that."

"No, but she's hiding something from you. She laughed at your stories, even though they weren't funny. She turned down your dinner invitation. How much do you know about her, really know about her?"

"You just heard her life story. And that story is funny," John insisted.

"No, it isn't, and we didn't. We heard the case study. There's a lot in that file that you don't know, and that she didn't volunteer. When you were chatting and flirting, did she tell you any stories about herself?"

John thought for a moment, then sat down slowly.

"I should have seen it earlier. Damn. Text her."

"Text her what, Sherlock?"

"Ask her about the abuse."

"The what? How do you know that?"

"She laughs at your stories, even when they're not funny. She wants to appease men, yet she carries extra weight and wears her clothes loose, so as not to appear too attractive. She rejects your offer of a date. All those files, John. She was moved from home to home. Now, either she was an incorrigible psychopath in her infancy" – John shook his head, unwilling to believe this – "which we agree seems unlikely, or there were reasons to remove her, over and over again. I'll wager that she was removed from every one of those homes for cause. That's why she was happy in that miserable youth home, and that's why she was willing to walk away from her whole life in response to a letter from a stranger. Let's not even get started on her obvious trust issues. Text her!" Sherlock was satisfied with his analysis and wanted it confirmed.

"Sherlock, no. That's not… not good."

"No?"

"No. Really. No," John shook his head in wonder at his flatmate, the genius who couldn't understand why one simply doesn't text a woman he has just met to ask if she was abused as a child.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: In which we Encounter Some Peculiar Interior Design, which Suits its Inhabitant**

Mary turned up at Baker Street at the appointed time on Friday. She never made it into the building; Sherlock had a cab waiting at the curb, and the three of them climbed in. Sherlock turned to the window; John turned to Mary to ask, "So, assuming there are more of these diamonds at the end of this, what are you going to do with your fortune?"

"I'll go back to California, buy some land up North, take in stray cats, raise sheep, collect rare books. Something like that."

"Boring," chimed in Sherlock.

"Yes, exactly," Mary said, looking pointedly in his direction. "I like boring. Boring is safe. A good kind of boring actually takes a lot of work."

The taxi stopped at the meeting point, and all three of them looked around. A man in a neat, clean suit stepped out of a large black car and walked over to the taxi. "Miss Morstan?"

"I'm Mary Morstan."

"Your friends – they aren't police, are they?"

"Not at all."

"You will all come with me."

Mary shrugged and looked at both of her companions. She took a deep breath, then exited the taxi, John and Sherlock behind her. The car drove on interminably. Sherlock named the streets under his breath, following their route in his mind. John tried to make small talk with Mary, but all three were distracted. She pulled out her wool, and knit to soothe herself. They eventually pulled up in front of a dull suburban home. The driver opened the door, and led them inside. "Mr. Sholto will see you in his study."

The study was a remarkable room, a parody of a nineteenth century gentleman's library, with heavy drapes, rich furniture, oak bookcases full of matching books, and game animal heads mounted around the walls. Mary blanched visibly when she saw the hunting trophies, then glanced toward the bookcase, for courage, and turned gamely to the man seated in the large overstuffed chair in the center of the room. She extended her hand and introduced herself, "I'm Mary Morstan."

Their host half-stood and extended his fingers in a limp imitation of a handshake. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Morstan. I'm Thaddeus Sholto. Please, be comfortable." Sholto, in a heavy brocade dressing-gown, matched the room. He drawled his words: "Your father and mine worked together in Africa. We should have met earlier, and under better circumstances."

He made a florid gesture in her direction and went on with his story. His tone and manner were affected and absurd; he spoke of his father as "Pater" and Nelson Mandela as "that terrorist." Their fathers had been friends in Angola and in South Africa; both had left South Africa in the early 90's. "Pater was his charming self, until the unfortunate incident between your father and the One-Legged Man. After that, he just hid himself away."

Mary interrupted the flow of Thaddeus's story to ask, "My father and the One-Legged Man?"

"Well, he killed him, didn't he? The One-Legged Man, I mean. He killed your father, and that frightened mine." Thaddeus was peeved by her interruption, and returned to his narrative. Mary looked down at her hands, blinking rapidly.

John was irked: "And this is how you tell her that her father is dead?"

"It's OK, John. I always assumed as much." Her words were calm, but her voice was a little deflated.

Thaddeus was gratified by Mary's intervention. After giving John a dirty look, he picked up the thread of his story. "Of course, you can imagine how terrible it all was for old Pater. He assumed the One-Legged Man would come for him next, so he just hid himself away. First it was iron gates, then those horrid CCTV cameras. Completely break up the roofline. I hate to see good English architecture marred by faddish technology. That wasn't enough, then. He hired bodyguards. My Pater spends his life spreading civilisation 'round the world, and ends his days like a prisoner in his own home."

While Sholto talked on, John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing at Mary. Her face was calm, composed; she showed neither anxiety or excitement or even the annoyance John himself was feeling. She gripped her hands in her lap in a way that made him think she was missing her knitting needles. Otherwise, she was completely still.

Thaddeus was enjoying himself: "When Pater finally did die, brother Bartholomew and I were both there. Pater tried to tell us the story, but he was incoherent – the drugs, I suppose. In one of his lucid moments, he unwrapped a handkerchief on the bed to show us all the sparklers, told us there were more where those came from. Dear old Pater died before he could tell us where they were, didn't he?"

No one answered his rhetorical question, so Thaddeus sighed and brought them up to date. "Well, Brother Bartholomew and I quarreled. He wanted to search for the treasure chest, and I wanted to find you" – he gestured at Mary – "I felt a sense of _noblesse oblige_, don't you know."

"And that's when you started sending me the stones," Mary prompted him.

"Yes, I sent them one at a time because I thought it best not to draw too much attention. But I do believe brother Bartholomew has found the treasure at long last. I've tried to persuade him that we should divide the claim with you, but he is … reluctant. We're supposed to meet to discuss the matter tonight."

Finally, Sherlock could no longer bear to sit still. "So, you expect us to go with you and - what, steal – the treasure from your brother? We are not hired thugs."

"I'm not interested in being a hired thug," Mary chimed in. John smiled, a little, thinking of her as an unlikely thug. She seemed to accept the idea pretty readily, though, and warmed to it. "I will not break into your brother's house, or – fight anyone –"

Sholto made a dismissive gesture. "No, no, nothing like that. I merely think we might be more confident if we go as a group. Safety in numbers, is all."

Mary glanced at John and Sherlock. It was clear that she was willing to go along. Sherlock and John were game, and the three of them stood up. "Now, then?" Mary prompted Sholto, who heaved himself from his easy chair and called for the driver.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: In Which Sherlock is Pleased With his own Cleverness**

Another long car ride led to an imposing manor. Sholto swept out of the car, with Sherlock, John, and Mary behind him. The old house, all grey granite, loomed up large in front of them, lights blazing from all the windows. The once lovely lawn was full of holes, which were visible in the light spilling out on all sides. John glanced at the holes and whispered to Mary: "Treasure-hunters." She nodded, and grasped his hand, saying, "This place would actually be less creepy all in flames, with an insane Mrs. Rochester dancing on the roof." John smiled at her comment, and at her hand in his.

A woman ran out the front door, followed by two men who were clearly the bodyguards Bartholomew Sholto had kept on after his father's death. The housekeeper was upset: "Mr. Thaddeus, we're so glad you're here. It's your brother, hurry!"

Thaddeus Sholto didn't hurry well, but Sherlock was off, bounding up the stairs. John squeezed Mary's hand, then followed. The housekeeper pointed the way, and the two men stopped in front of a closed door at the top of the house.

"Here?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "It's the only locked door in the house."

They put their shoulders to it and stove in the door, revealing a gruesome scene. A man lay contorted on the floor, his body twisted half out of his chair. The ceiling had been broken through, and the plaster covered the floor and the room's smashed and broken furnishings in a fine white powder. Mary stopped at the head of the stairs, her face all surprise; the housekeeper behind her gasped, "Mr. Bartholomew!" Thaddeus Sholto was still toiling up the stairs. Sherlock grinned at John, who glanced behind him.

"Mary, you should stay out there," John said. She nodded silently, never taking her eyes off the body.

The housekeeper began to cry, and Mary turned to her. "Let's take you downstairs. You can make me some tea and we can talk. Then," - she raised her voice and half-turned back to John and Sherlock - "after twenty minutes or so, we can call the police."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows appreciatively at that, and glanced across the body at John. John glanced at Sherlock, then back to the body. "Twenty minutes then."

Left alone, Sherlock and John focused on the crime scene.

"Well, John, what do you see?"

"Clearly there was a struggle, but it looks like he's been poisoned."

Sherlock was walking around the room quickly, his face to the ground. "Small footprints here." He moved in to the body, examining it closely, sniffing the mouth, the fingers. He rocked back on his heels and looked up at John. "Well, how did he get the poison?" John gently examined the man's fingers, then leaned in to the face as Sherlock had. He looked up and shook his head. Sherlock grinned, pushed aside the man's hair, and pointed to the tiny puncture in the back of the man's neck.

"That's not an injection," John observed.

"It's not an injection," Sherlock confirmed. "It's a poisoned blow dart."

"A poisoned dart? You're serious. A poisoned blow dart? They fought, and he was shot with a poisoned dart. You're serious?"

"Eliminate the impossible, and what remains…" Sherlock moved around the room, tracing the struggle he saw. "Brother Bartholomew here didn't struggle at all. The … small-footed man, here" — and he paused at the long end of the room – "killed him. He dropped his kit!" Sherlock bent down and grabbed a small packet from under the broken side table. "No, the struggle was between the small-footed man and the One-Legged Man." Sherlock's eyes glittered at John.

"The One-Legged Man? The same one who killed Mary's father?"

Sherlock continued to move around the room: "Well, presumably. They were working together, but I think Brother Bartholomew was not supposed to die. Of course, we're still missing the treasure chest. It must have been up here ..."

Sherlock was already heaving himself through the hole in the ceiling. He turned around and reached down for John's hand. Once in the attic, John pulled a small flashlight out of his pocket, and ran it along the floor to show the beams. Sherlock hopped along the beams toward the furthest wall, where light glimmered: "Trapdoor!" he sang out, and leaned out over the roof.

John caught up with Sherlock and looked down: "Trapdoor to what? How does this help?"

Sherlock was on the roof in a moment, John scrambling after. The old slate roof was slippery, and the men hurried to keep from falling off. At the end of the flat section of the roof that covered the conservatory, Sherlock stood up, and turned around to John with a triumphant gesture, his hand sticky. "Roof-tar!"

Lestrade arrived at that moment, only to see Sherlock looming at the edge of the roof like a gargoyle. John made a small gesture of greeting; Lestrade sighed, and looked behind him at his team, whose voices drifted upward.

"How'd the Freak get here so fast?" asked Donovan.

"Why don't you jump?" yelled Anderson.

Lestrade shrugged, resigned, and stepped aside to usher his people into the house. Sherlock and John were dropping down through the ceiling into Bartholomew's room just as Lestrade made his way to the top of the stairs.

"Well?" asked Lestrade.

"No time to wait about here," said Sherlock. "He's taken off over country."

"Who?"

"The One-Legged Man. We must go."

Lestrade was firm. "No, you are going to explain to me what has happened, and how it is that you got here before I got a call, and why some American woman is stalling for you."

"Mary?" asked John.

"She's downstairs, interfering with my team. Where'd you find her, Sherlock?"

"She's not mine. Ask John." Sherlock flicked his hand in his friend's direction. "Do you want to know what happened, or not?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: In Which Sherlock Demonstrates an Unusual Degree of Patience with Lestrade**

Sherlock gestured impatiently towards the powdery floor, expecting, or perhaps just hoping, that Lestrade could read the story he saw sketched there. Lestrade was impatient: "And?"

Sherlock sighed and tossed his head, then began to move around the room as if reenacting the earlier events of the evening. "Bartholomew here found the treasure, not on the grounds as he had expected, but in the drop ceiling of this, his father's room. He -more likely the security guards—is – are - responsible for this great hole in the ceiling. The small-footed man climbed up the outside – do you want to see?" Lestrade shook his head curtly —"then pulled up the One-Legged Man with a rope." Sherlock opened his hand to show the bits of hemp fiber he'd found on the roof. "They came through the hole which Bartholomew here had so kindly prepared for them."

Lestrade interrupted: "Who are these small-footed and One-Legged Men? How do you know that?"

Sherlock grabbed Lestrade by the shoulders and maneuvered him into position: "Your foot; his footprint. Look, not only is his foot shorter and narrower than yours, he wears no shoes. That, and his stride" -Sherlock gently walked Lestrade backwards - "tells me that the small –footed man is himself small, about one and a half metres high."

"And the One-Legged Man?"

Sherlock oriented his slow friend to another pair of prints: "See these prints? The left is an ordinary shoe, old and heavily worn, dragging on the toe and instep, but this print—that's not a shoe."

Lestrade grunted, "Prosthesis?"

"And an old one, too. Look how the edges are worn away. He's stopped putting shoes on it, and it drags – here – almost like a peg-leg." Lestrade followed Sherlock around the room as he continued his story. "So, the Small Man was here when he killed Bartholomew." He looked across the room towards the body, "and the One-Legged Man tackled him … here."

"All right, I can see that," Lestrade answered, his A's broadening as he became annoyed, "But how did he kill him from all the way over here?" Sherlock's eyes twinkled as he held up a small leather packet.

"What's that?" Lestrade's A's threatened to consume his entire sentence.

Sherlock grinned. "Poisoned blow darts. See the tips? Don't touch. The Small Man is probably African – the San sometimes still use blow guns - so these should be tipped with poison from the beetle _Diamphidia_, but that would be hard to find in England and it doesn't work that fast. Probably Oleander – easier to find, and it can work like strychnine."

John, who had followed all this with an ever-widening grin, turned to Lestrade, expecting him to enjoy Sherlock's demonstration as much as he had. Instead Lestrade seemed to find the story ridiculous, "You expect me to believe that this man was killed in his locked bedroom by… by a Bushman? This is peculiar, even for you."

John's phone buzzed. He pulled it out and looked at the text while Sherlock and Lestrade argued over the body.

_What's going on between Donovan and Anderson?_

_She could do better. Anderson is a clod._

_MM_

John chuckled at that, earning himself a glare from Lestrade and Sherlock. Before he could explain, the phone buzzed again, and he read:

_They suspect the housekeeper. _

_MM_

John waggled his phone at Lestrade: "You suspect the household staff?"

"It's an inside job, and they are all on the inside."

Mary was becoming anxious, to judge by the rate of her texts. The phone buzzed in his hand, and he turned it around to read:

_They suspect me, too. They aren't very good at this, are they?  
>MM<em>

John was upset by this, and he shook his phone at Lestrade: "Now, there's no call for your people to be harassing Mary, Lestrade. You'd better go down there and sort it out."

Lestrade shrugged and went downstairs, where he found Mary waiting for him in the kitchen. She gestured to him to sit down at the kitchen table, and put a mug of tea in front of him. He sensed her caution: "You don't like the police, do you?"

"I'm trying to keep an open mind here, but all of my instincts tell me not to trust you. I was tempted to run for it after I made the 999 call."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You must understand that I have a job to do here." Lestrade kept his voice and language neutral.

"I do, and I've stayed to do my bit. I was a bit of a wayward youth, and old habits try hard." She smiled apologetically. "Do you mind if I knit while we talk? It calms me."

The frankness and the knitting surprised Lestrade, and he was hard to surprise. He'd already cased her; he knew what kids who came through the system were like, cagey and mistrustful from years of abuse and neglect. Most of the ones he encountered grew up to be criminals of one sort or another, but he supposed that there had to be some who turned into ordinary folks. He'd just never met any in his line of work. Still and all, the knitting was odd. The domesticity of the moment struck him, as he sat in the kitchen, drinking tea while she sat across the table from him, knitting.

"Well, isn't this quaint," Lestrade offered, with a little gesture between them. She tilted her head, hesitated, then smiled a little.

"Positively cozy, except for the horrible murder upstairs. What does Sherlock say about it?"

"Something farfetched about a small man climbing onto the roof, hauling up a One-Legged Man, killing Bartholomew Sholto, then making off cross-country with a load of diamonds. I'd say he was watching too much late-night TV, if I could imagine him watching TV."

"So, where does he think the One-Legged Man went?"

"You're not taking him seriously?"

She shrugged. "You've got a better explanation?"

"Well, I can see where the foot-prints bear out the One-Legged Man theory. But it makes much more sense for one of the help here to have let him in. They knew the brother was coming for the diamonds tonight, and wanted to make a grab for themselves. It could've been Thaddeus himself – we know the brothers disagreed about what to do with the diamonds."

Mary dismissed Lestrade's theory as handily as Sherlock had. "That's ridiculous. For one, I've been with Thaddeus Sholto for much of the evening. He's useless, completely useless. And I don't see any of the people here doing it either. They were very upset when John and Sherlock opened that room. You don't kill a man an hour before his guests arrive, then stand around and invite the guests in to find the body. Nope. I'm going with the weird theory. Everything else about this situation is weird – my father, the diamonds, Thaddeus Sholto, John and Sherlock, this house, me sitting here having a peaceful, almost pleasant conversation with a cop – I say it must be weird all the way through."

Lestrade tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, but John and Sherlock came into the kitchen before he could reply. John moved to stand protectively behind Mary's chair, and Sherlock addressed himself to Lestrade:

"We need dogs, Lestrade."

"Dogs?"

"Yes. If we're going to find the One-Legged Man and his small companion, we will need dogs. The One-Legged Man was clumsy; he picked up a bit of tar off the roof. Should be easy enough for a good police dog to pick up the scent."

Lestrade leaned back and looked at Sherlock, considering. Sherlock always seemed so sure of himself; how was he to tell when Sherlock was sure, and when he was making a wild leap? John looked down at Mary's knitting; Mary glanced between Sherlock and Lestrade.

"All right. Dogs. Just this once. Maybe it'll be fun," was his reply, and Lestrade picked up his phone and went outside to make the call. Mary exhaled, and John sat down beside her and nodded towards the knitting in her hand, thinking he should make small talk while they waited.

"What are you making?"

"A hat. I make a lot of hats. They don't use much yarn, and everybody needs one."

"Who is it for?"

She held it up next to his face, then nodded in satisfaction. "This one's for you. The green's just right." He blushed slightly. She noticed, and teased him a little. "It's just a hat, John."

John jumped up and went outside to look for Lestrade. Sherlock paused in his pacing to glance at Mary, who kept knitting.

"Don't worry," she said, without looking up at him. "I won't make you one." Then she looked him in the eyes. "There's just something about John that makes you want to take care of him, you know?"

Sherlock met her gaze, then faltered a little - but only a little - murmuring, "Yes, I know," before he went out to find the other men.

After a few minutes, Mary went out to the drive, where she found the three men. Lestrade was busy overseeing the process of loading the housekeeper, Thaddeus Sholto, and Bartholomew's bodyguards into a police van, and Sherlock and John were trying to stop him. She watched them quarrel like boys; they stopped when the dogs arrived. Sherlock hung back a little, inspecting the dogs from a respectful distance, but John and Lestrade rubbed the animals' ears while Lestrade described the situation to their handler. John looked up and noticed Mary watching them and walked over to her, rubbing his hands together.

"Lestrade's got dogs," he said.

"And now you three are going to take off over country, trailing the dogs, chasing the One-Legged Man? Lestrade's right – it is like a late night TV movie."

John grinned a little, anticipating the chase.

"Well," Mary said, "keep warm and safe, John Watson." She put the finished knit cap on his head, rolled the brim, and patted him around the ears. He smiled again, leaned towards her, hesitated, and was called away by a bemused Lestrade: "We're ready when you are, John!"


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: John does not Want to Make Small Talk with Lestrade**

The dogs quickly picked up the scent from Sherlock's sticky scrap of tar-paper; Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and the handler followed them across country, towards the river. The night was cold and clear, and the men had to run to keep up with the dogs at first. The dogs kept off the road, following their quarry through private gardens and public parks, climbing over low fences and trailing along treelines and hedges. Clearly, the One-Legged Man and his small friend had been trying to stay out of sight.

As they came into the more densely populated parts of town, the dogs slowed down, and the men did too. The roof-tar scent must have become mingled with other scents; the dogs were cautious in the alleys and backstreets. At one point, they spent several moments inspecting a large puddle of oil before finding the right scent and moving on.

Sherlock was intently focused on the dogs and their handler, almost as though he envied the dogs their sense of smell. John and Lestrade fell back a little.

"Nice hat," offered Lestrade. "She's an interesting woman."

John nodded and bit his lip; he glanced at Lestrade, then at Sherlock.

Lestrade pressed: "So, have you known her long, or…"

John shook his head. "She came to us a few days ago with the case, is all."

Lestrade smiled. "She knits fast, then."

John cleared his throat and changed the subject. "The dogs are slowing down."

The dogs circled in the middle of an empty intersection. They were in an old part of London, close to the river. "Aaah, they've lost him," moaned Sherlock. "He must have picked up a ride, or …" Sherlock looked up at the buildings around them, "found help here."

The handler gathered his dogs in the middle of the empty intersection while Sherlock, John, and Lestrade read name plates and addresses all around. Sherlock knew what to look for, so it didn't surprise them when he sang out, "Mordecai Smith, River Boat Service." He turned around and pointed at the building behind him. "He means to escape on the river." Sherlock, John, and Lestrade met in the center of the intersection, where Sherlock crouched down and pet the dogs, praising them, "Good doggy. Good Toby," while John and Lestrade chuckled overhead.

The dog handler radioed his partner for a pickup. Sherlock, however, was not done searching for the One-Legged Man and Mordecai Smith's boat, and Lestrade and John scrambled after Sherlock, up and down the wharves and docks of the Thames until well after the sun was up.

(Author's Note: I struggled with this chapter. I think it is too short and blah, but I don't quite know what else to do with it. Readers thought it wasn't a problem, but it still bugs me. Maybe I just like long chapters.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: In which we Break for Soup **

The three men climbed into the taxi Sherlock hailed; they sat down, exhaled, and looked at one another.  
>"We should really go tell Mary what happened," said John. "After all…"<p>

"Yes, but there's nothing to tell. Shouldn't we continue the investigation?" Sherlock was irritated that the One-Legged Man had gotten away.

Lestrade was sitting awkwardly in the jump seat, and he turned back to them after having spoken to the driver. "We're going to Mary's. It's only right we tell her. After that, I'll go to the Yard and deal with my suspects, and you two can go back to looking for the One-Legged Man."

The ride was quiet; each man was wrapped in his own thoughts. Sherlock made the cabby stop at one point so he could jump out and pass a note and some cash to a homeless man in a knit cap. Finally, the taxi pulled up in front of a battered building of grey concrete, barely a step up from the estates. "This can't be it," said John. The place didn't look at all appropriate for Mary.

"It is," said Sherlock, pointing at the children in the concrete yard. "Hats." Indeed, about half of the children were wearing colorful – and clearly handknit – watch caps, just like the one John had stuffed in his pocket when they got in the taxi.

"I got the address from Donovan. I had her drop Mary here this morning," said Lestrade, all efficiency. The children in the yard fell silent and still as the men walked from the car to the building, and Lestrade knew they'd recognized him as a policeman. One boy turned and ran down the street, and he wondered what crime was being halted on his behalf.

They went up the stairs and down the shabby concrete hall; Lestrade and Sherlock both glanced at a large and unusual piece of graffiti next to Mary's half-open door. All three men hesitated in the corridor, listening; Mary was inside, all right, and she was singing:

_Ay-ay- ay-ay._

_Canto y no llores…_

Lestrade, in the lead, could see her through the half-open door, working in the kitchen, lost in the music. For a moment, he remembered how much he'd enjoyed watching his wife when she worked like that, unselfconscious and calm. When she left, she told him it was creepy. She didn't understand how much he needed those moments of calm and order, when so much of his life was scenes of violence and disorder. He smiled when Mary spun to the music, not because she danced well, but because she danced badly but danced anyway. John, behind him, was surprised that she would listen to such cheerful music after what had happened the night before. _And why is she singing in Spanish?_ Sherlock, lurking in the back, irked at this boring waste of time, noticed the tune. His fingers formed around the neck of an absent violin, following the melody involuntarily before muttering, "_Cielito Lindo_, how trite."

Mary heard them and switched off the music before gesturing them in. "Sorry. I need to get myself moving, after everything that happened last night. I find Mariachi music very energizing. Like the song says, 'Sing and don't cry.' Earlier this morning, it was all very maudlin. You missed a several hours of Townes Van Zandt and Emmylou Harris."

Lestrade scolded her, "Miss Morstan – Mary - you shouldn't leave your door open like this. It isn't safe."

"It's perfectly safe, Inspector, I promise you. Saturday is soup day, so I leave the door open. The kids in the building know they can come by for a little bit if there's nothing at home. It's Saturday – no school lunch. I expect you've scared them all off, though. Come in."

Lestrade tugged at his ear, displeased with her answer, but he admired the flat: "It's very… colorful."

"And small," John couldn't help but add.

Sherlock glared at her as he came in: "I know how you broke your foot."

"Do tell," Mary gestured with her ladle.

"You were a tagger – you tagged your own apartment." He pointed out the door, towards the markings he and Lestrade had both noticed in the hall. "You broke your foot running from the police."

Mary smiled, remembering the night she broke her foot: "That's my mark, all right. Believe me, you do not want to mess with the night guards at Disneyland."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, and John and even Lestrade chuckled at this. The three men filled the tiny apartment. She'd painted every wall of the efficiency apartment a different warm color; the effect was happy and cozy. John, feeling that turnaround was fair play, examined her bookshelf. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to learn from this, except that she read a lot of capital "L" literature he'd heard of and a lot of apparently American stuff he hadn't. She read Neruda in Spanish, and she could alphabetize.

Mary continued: "At first, I stayed here because it was all I could afford. But then, I got it just the way I like it, and, well, I don't like to move, so I've stayed. Soup?"

Sherlock groaned. He didn't want to stop for food. John and Lestrade, however, realized how hungry they were, and each accepted a bowl, taking their places at the small counter that substituted for a dining table. Mary talked Sherlock into taking a mug of soup, and then brought up the subject they'd been avoiding:

"So…. No One-Legged Man, I take it."

The men glanced at one another, and it was finally Lestrade who spoke, in the official language of the police file. "We pursued the trail all the way to the river, but the suspect escaped. We think he might lie low for a few days, then try to leave the country."

John wanted to reassure Mary: "We'll find him. Sherlock knows where to look. Don't you, Sherlock?"

"Well, he's not bloody well in Mary's tiny flat eating chicken soup. We've determined that much."

Mary had something more on her mind. "Well, Inspector Lestrade, at least you must let those poor people from the house go. They're not mixed up in this, that much is clear."

Sherlock perked up. "Come on, Lestrade. Even Mary can see that our culprits are out there, not at the Yard."

Lestrade looked tired, which is to say, he looked as he usually looked. "I have to investigate every possibility. And it is entirely possible that any one of them was the inside man. Right now, I have enough evidence to make it stick to any of them."

Mary pressed him. "Making the evidence stick isn't the same as finding out the truth. I know, you have a murder and you want a conviction. But I think I'd rather know the truth, Inspector."

He made a wry face and stood. "You might be right about that. I'll go talk to them."

Sherlock clattered his mug into the sink, which John recognized as a rare effort at manners, and then stood in the doorframe, to indicate that it was time to leave. John cleared his place and thanked Mary with a soft smile, before following his friend into the hall. Lestrade lingered as he handed her his bowl.

Mary was grateful: "Thank you for coming to tell me in person, Inspector. I think you may become my favorite policeman."

Lestrade's ears turned pink. Mary added, "Now, don't let that go to your head, Detective Inspector Lestrade. You know how I generally feel about the police. This may well be damning by faint praise."

Lestrade knew it was time to go, even if he was reluctant to leave. So he scolded her again, "You really should keep your door locked… And please, call me Geoff."

So she did: "Thank you, Geoff."

He turned on his heel, and hurried down the hall after John and Sherlock.

The men walked down the street, searching for a taxi. Sherlock was looking for something online; he didn't even pause from tapping at his mobile to call out to Lestrade, who was striding past him: "You must let them go, Lestrade. You know they didn't do it."

Lestrade sighed and turned, walking backwards so he could explain things to Sherlock. "They've been properly processed. I can't just let people go, willy-nilly. I have to do an investigation. I have procedures to follow. A man is horribly dead, and, as long as those men are loose, Mary might be in danger."

"Wait, what? Why would Mary be in danger?" asked John, hopping a little to keep up.

"If they want the treasure, and are killing people who have a claim to the treasure, they might figure out that she is one of those people." Lestrade turned around and faced into the wind, looking for a taxi stand.

Sherlock dismissed this theory entirely. "They've got the diamonds. They would be smart to make off with them now and not make any more trouble for themselves."

Lestrade turned back to him again: "They're criminals, Sherlock. Criminals aren't always smart."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: In which John has Grounds to Wear his Hat**

Sunday was quiet at 221 B Baker Street. John napped a little, and spent an undue amount of time looking at his cell phone, wondering if he should call Mary. He read instead, and wondered where Sherlock was.

Monday was about the same, except John spent his day at the clinic wondering if he should call Mary, and wondering where Sherlock was. When he got back to the flat, Sherlock was waiting for him.

"Keep your coat. Do you have a scarf? You should have a scarf. Don't forget that silly hat. Are you ready? You should probably bring your gun." John was alarmed by Sherlock's fussing over him; it seemed almost maternal, except for that bit about the gun.

"Right. Where are we going?" John asked, even as he checked his gun and stuffed the hat in his pocket.

"I've been tracing the One-Legged Man for three days now. Come on, Lestrade is waiting."

In the taxi, Sherlock gestured to John without looking at him. "You should at least text her."

"What?" John was still surprised when Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts.

"Mary should probably be informed that we are about to close her case. Why? What were you going to say?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his friend, who obediently pulled out his phone to send the message.

The taxi dropped them at the police docks at Waterloo Bridge, where Lestrade was waiting next to a police boat. Sherlock eyed it critically. "Is it fast?" he asked Lestrade.

"It's the one we use to chase drug runners. Between the dogs and the boat, I'm spending an awful lot of my budget on you, Sherlock."

"Not on me, Lestrade. On Bartholomew Sholto and Mary Morstan. Besides, how long has it been since you were on one of these? How fast can it really go?" Sherlock leapt nimbly aboard, eager for the chase. John pulled on his hat and followed, less nimbly, remembering why he'd chosen the Army over the Navy. Lestrade and the pilot each gathered up a mooring rope to cast off before they climbed aboard.

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade followed the pilot to the boat's small bridge, swaying together as she gunned the engine and the boat lurched away from the dock. John leaned towards Sherlock and shouted over the sound of the engine, "So, where are we going?"

Sherlock explained, "Mordecai Smith's boat went in for repairs, suddenly and without any apparent mechanical problems. Its problems seem to have been primarily cosmetic; it was green, but now it's blue. The One-Legged Man is trying to give us the slip, but I don't think he will."

Sherlock linked his hand through John's elbow, and gestured to the clear sky, bright with stars, and to the river, shining with reflected moonlight. Pulling him closer, Sherlock leaned down so he wouldn't have to shout, "It's a fine night for it."

Lestrade shouted some instructions to the pilot, who aimed the boat for the opposite shore. "You gentlemen could go below where it's warmer," she shouted, hoping they would take the hint and clear off her bridge. She shrugged as they ignored her. Lestrade kept his binoculars trained on the water's edge; Sherlock was focused on the middle of the river. John was peering into the distance, trying to think about the blue boat he was looking for and not his flatmate's grip on his arm.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Containing a Somewhat More Complete Chase Scene**

They all saw it at once; a bright blue speedboat swung out from behind a cluster of cranes on the far side of the river. Before the men even had a chance to call out, the pilot was angling for it and picking up speed. Sherlock leapt down to the deck and ran to the prow. John climbed down the ladder to follow him. "Yes! There he is!" Sherlock shouted, pointing. John could make out the man seated on the aft deck of the blue speedboat, busy with something at his feet. He saw someone else too, a small dark man, running from one side of the boat to the other. He looked to Sherlock, questioning, "The Small Man?"

Sherlock nodded, pleased. "Watch out for him, though; he only dropped some darts at Sholto's. He still has his blow gun."

The police boat lived up to Lestrade's claims; the pilot pulled up alongside the speedboat, matching its speed. Lestrade used the ship's loudspeaker to hail Mordecai Smith by name. While he was trying to persuade Smith to surrender, Sherlock and John moved quickly to starboard, preparing to jump across as soon as the pilot maneuvered them into position.

The police cruiser kept parallel with the speedboat, edging ever closer. Sherlock grabbed the rail with both his hands, leveraging with his foot, ready to leap the gap. John kept his gun in his hand and his eye on the other boat's two passengers. The One-Legged Man stood and roared incomprehensibly at his companion, who held something in his right hand, moving surely across the deck towards them. The Bushman raised a small object to his mouth; something glittered in the moonlight, and John grabbed Sherlock around the chest, pulling him back and down, even as he fired a shot at the African, who continued his forward path over the edge of the speedboat and into the river. Sherlock and John did not see him sink beneath the cold surface of the Thames; both men turned towards one another, then behind them, where the final blow dart was lodged in the police boat's cabin wall. Their breath came in gulps as they fell together, slumped against the cabin, laughing the nervous laughter that came after a narrow escape.

Mordecai Smith, persuaded by Lestrade's words or John's gun, slowed to a stop, and Lestrade lashed the two boats together. The One-Legged Man surrendered quietly enough, and was brought aboard the Police Cruiser with a small wooden box in his hands. Lestrade gave him the appropriate warnings, and secured him inside the small cabin. Sherlock and John wanted to talk to him then and there, but Lestrade forbid: "He's my suspect, and I will question him when and where it is appropriate. We're all going back to the Yard."

Perhaps in an effort to appease Sherlock, he handed him the wooden box that the One-Legged Man had surrendered to him. "Tell me what you can about this."

Sherlock looked closely at the glossy black box, turning it in his long fingers, examining the sleekly polished surface, the joints, the lock. "African Blackwood. Grows throughout the drier parts of Africa – Angola, Botswana, South Africa. It's usually used for clarinets, instruments like that, because it's hard and strong, but easy to work with. Heavy, too," he added, weighing the box in his hand. "It's hard to tell from the wood how old it is, but the locks are silver. German. Prewar." He put out his hand, expectantly. Lestrade looked at the empty hand, then back at Sherlock.

"The key, Lestrade."

Lestrade returned to the cabin, where he remonstrated briefly with the One-Legged Man before returning. "He says there's no key."

"There's a lock; there must be a key."

"The key is at the bottom of the river, Sherlock," said Lestrade, sharing Sherlock's frustration at this turn of events.

John was outraged, and turned towards the cabin door. "He's probably hiding it. I'll bet he's got it in his filthy pockets!"

Lestrade stepped in front of John, his stance solid, blocking the smaller man. "What are you going to do, shoot him? He says there's no key, and I, for one, believe him. We can add on an obstruction charge later. At the Yard. After we go through the proper procedures." With that, he took the box back from Sherlock and shoved it into a duffel bag which he slung over his shoulder for the slow trip back to the police dock.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: In which CCTV is used to Pry into the Personal Lives of One's Friends**

When they arrived at the Yard, Mary was already in one of the interview rooms; Lestrade had phoned ahead to arrange everything. John insisted that she should have the first chance at the box; this was her treasure, her lost patrimony, after all. Lestrade and Sherlock raised their eyebrows, but let him carry the box into the dim room where Mary waited. They went down the hall to seat themselves in a cramped office where the CCTV monitor showed them everything in the interview room. Lestrade deftly picked up a chair and flipped it around. He sat down, straddling it, resting his chin on his arms on the back of the chair. Sherlock turned the other chair sideways, so he could sit slightly behind the Detective Inspector and look at the screen over Lestrade's shoulder, with his feet propped up on the wall.

Mary was nervous; now she would know the secret her father had never told her. Now she would see the treasure. "Hi, John. That's really it?"

"That's really it, and there's really no key." He put the box on the table and stepped away from it, feeling less pleased than he thought he should. _She'll take the diamonds and run away to California. I'll never see her again_, he thought.

She bent over and examined the box's sleek black surface. "It's so shiny, like a piano or a clarinet."

"Hmm-hmm. Something like that," muttered John, stiff, anxious, glancing at the box, at her.

She turned her attention to the lock, turning the box towards the light. With a little smile, she went to her bag and pulled out a knitting needle, inserted it into the lock, and, wiggling it a bit, jimmied it open. All three men grunted in admiration and surprise, it was so neatly done. She paused, took a deep breath, smiled nervously at John, and opened the box.

It was empty.

"Oh, thank God," breathed John and Lestrade, softly and simultaneously.

"Wait, what?" said Mary and Sherlock in turn. Sherlock leapt up; he wanted to pace, but the room was too small. In the interview room, Mary turned to John and waited. Lestrade opened and closed his mouth a few times, but didn't have to explain himself; he and Sherlock were too surprised by what was happening in the other room.

John took a deep breath and thought, _The hell with it_. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She was surprised, but returned the embrace. Lestrade sat bolt upright and Sherlock froze in his tracks; both men stared at the screen in surprise.

John and Mary held each other for a few moments, until she pulled herself away, patted his cheek, and said, "Oh, John, it's too bad that this is such a terrible idea." Lestrade and Sherlock gazed at the screen, each glad the other man could not see his relief.

"You didn't seem to mind it just now," John protested.

She sighed, again. "How can I explain this to you? You're handsome, smart, sweet, and so very, very good. But you're not right for me, and I'm not right for you."

"This is the strangest rejection I've ever received." John blinked a little. Not crying.

"You need action, movement. I'm done with that. I need stillness, a home. We don't suit. I won't be a damsel in distress forever, or even anymore." Mary rested a hand on the empty box beside them. "I can't give you what you need, and you can't give me what I need."

John furrowed his brow and pursed his lips.

Mary tried to explain again. "It's – it's - how you stand. You can stand still, unlike your friend Sherlock, but it's waiting, not stillness. You're really just waiting to spring into action. It's damned sexy, but I need someone who can actually rest, even if it's just from time to time."

He still seemed confused, so Mary kept talking. "The other day, for example. The three of you came to my flat, and I gave you soup. Sherlock's always in motion, and wouldn't take any – 'Digestion interferes with my thinking.'" Her imitation of his friend made John smile a little. "I pushed him, remember? Proteins and muscles and whatnot. Then, when he finally consented, I gave him the soup in a mug. I knew if I gave him a bowl, he wouldn't eat as much. But with a mug, he could stomp about the room, being dramatic, drinking as he went. And he emptied the mug, I might add."

"Wait, are you saying that you tricked Sherlock into drinking a mug of soup?"

"Either that, or he figured it out and played along just to spare my feelings. Which do you think is more likely?" John shook his head; in the CCTV room, Lestrade turned to Sherlock, chuckling, "I like this woman." Sherlock gave him a little grimace, then turned back to the screen.

She was warming to her illustration now. "And you, John, you took the soup, but you just barely leaned against the stool; you held the bowl in your hand and ate little spoonfuls, quickly, neatly, as though you weren't sure you'd have time to finish." Another sigh. "But Geoff," - at this, John and Sherlock both repeated Lestrade's first name in chorus; Lestrade himself froze at the sound of his own name.

"Geoff took that bowl of soup, and sat down. He put the soup on the placemat. He tasted it with his spoon, then paused. He crumbled in a few crackers, and enjoyed his soup. He could stop, sit, and just be still - a tired, hungry man with a bowl of soup. I need someone like that."

"Wait, you like Lestrade better than you like me because of how he eats his soup?" John was irritated. "Wait… you like Lestrade?"

In the CCTV room, Sherlock had figured out that he could watch Lestrade's reflection in the screen; he was amused by the Inspector's gentle smile, but he didn't say anything.

"John, I'm only telling you what I've observed. I'm not saying I can't be your friend, and I'm not saying that I'm running off with Geoff. The man wears a ring, for God's sake. I'm just saying that this won't work the way I think you want it to."

John considered this – all of this – with three pairs of eyes upon him. "I just thought – we really seemed to hit it off, and…"

"John, I'm not denying that I find you attractive. I like you, a lot. But I think we're best thinking of one another as good friends. When you're sick in bed and Sherlock won't bring you soup, I'm the person to call. When you decide you want to go somewhere, drink a little beer and learn about baseball, I'm there. When you want another hat because Sherlock has thrown yours into the river, let me know. But what you _need_ is action and adventure and … derring-do … and I can't give you that. What I need is safety and home, and you can't give me that. You need Sherlock, and I need… someone else."

John sighed, blinked, and tilted his head, relenting. She smiled, and extended her hand. They shook hands, smiling, relieved not to have lost one another's friendship. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her to his side, and asked, "Why would Sherlock throw my hat into the river?"

"Because he hates it," she answered. "Don't you, Sherlock?" She looked directly at the CCTV camera at that moment, and John's mouth dropped. "Don't you guys have a suspect to interrogate? We're missing some diamonds here!" Mary called out, the brash American again. Lestrade and Sherlock saw no more; they were hurrying down the hall to the interview room, both grinning like schoolboys.

Lestrade turned to Sherlock at the door: "I told you I liked that woman." Then he composed himself, shaking out his sleeves before entering the room. He addressed himself gently to Mary, "Everything all right?" She blushed slightly, and said, "I'd like to watch the interview, if I may." He nodded and steered her out of the room, a gentle hand on her elbow.

John and Sherlock, left alone in the interview room, exchanged nervous glances. John gave a little cough, and, as was his habit, stood at parade rest, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

"She's right, you know."

John sighed. "Right about what? I can't believe you watched that whole…. No, I can believe it. Right about what?"

"About that hat." Sherlock bent over the empty box, examining the lock to see how Mary had opened it. "And about how you stand. You're doing it now."

John's eyes widened, just a little. Mouth open, he turned towards his friend; at that moment Lestrade, humming a little to himself but otherwise all business, bustled in with the One-Legged Man.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: **Here it is: the last chapter! It's been fun. School started this week, so I've finished just in time. Time to trade writing fanfiction for grading. Thanks for reading and reviewing and listing my stories!

–Goodbye GoatHill

**Chapter 12: The One-Legged Man Explains All**

Lestrade steadied himself with the familiar rituals of the suspect interview: making the formal warnings and statements, setting up the recording equipment, arranging the suspect in alignment with the camera. Sherlock paced, impatient with the official apparatus; John sat down and looked steadily at the One-Legged Man. He hadn't really gotten a good look at him before. He was an older man, with a scraggly beard; his skin was dark and wrinkled from a lifetime of exposure to the sun, and John couldn't help feel a little bit of sympathy when the man grunted as he arranged his injured leg beneath the table.

Lestrade cleared his throat, to indicate that the interview was beginning in earnest, and addressed himself to the One-Legged Man: "Will you please state your name for the record?"

Sherlock, bursting to speak, interrupted: "Lestrade, this is Jonathan Small. He's been hunting these diamonds for many years now. Just what have you done with the diamonds you devoted your life to finding? Clearly, you, Morstan, and Sholto were in cahoots to smuggle them out of, what, Angola? They double-crossed you, so you killed Morstan; that much is obvious. Why didn't you kill Sholto too?"

Small seemed to take all this in stride. "He died before I had the chance. And I would have done it, too. He deserved it. They both did. I'm sorry about his son; I had no grudge against him. But Sholto … I wish I'd gotten Sholto." John recognized his accent; he'd met a few South Africans in Afghanistan, and tended to think of them as a bit mercenary – handy and courageous enough, but alarmingly comfortable with a great deal of violence and even cruelty.

"I guess I'd better back it up a bit," Small said, looking at the men who comprised his audience. He didn't expect the cop to understand, but he hoped the soldier might. The other one – he already seemed to know everything, and that made it easier. "I got myself into a bit of trouble when I was a boy. Nothing much, mind you – just high spirits. Dad said I should go to the Army; they'd sort me out. I figured that I might as well go, and the old man was right. Army suited me, even if I didn't always see the grand plan. I didn't see how killing a lot of Natives made the world safe for democracy," he explained, "Seemed to me they could all go to hell in a handbasket without my help."

Lestrade's gaze flickered from Small's face to Sherlock's. He was trying to figure out how much of this was news to the Consulting Detective. Sherlock knew the One-Legged Man's name; Lestrade figured he must know more. He was worried about John, too; John was edgy, agitated. He figured John would make a decent bad cop if it came to that, but Small seemed inclined to keep talking, as long as John didn't interrupt him.

"Anyway, I was at Huambo, and a bloody great mess that was." John leaned back and lifted his eyebrows. He'd heard stories about Huambo, and he knew what this meant. "So, while I was there, I was guardin'… something. We'd set up in a church, and I was standing outside when these Natives – not UNITA either, just civilians, I guess, if there were any civilians left anymore – come up to me and start talking. I know a little Portuguese, they know a little English. They've got a deal for me. I hide this box, safe in the church like, and after things quiet down, we split it between us, four ways. I asked how we'd find each other again, and they say they'll find me. "

"You believed them?" prompted Lestrade.

"I believed their machetes," said Small. "And sure enough, I saw them every day. They found some way or the other to turn up at the church each and every day. But things got bad and worse in Huambo. One day, it was only two of them that come. Then just one, then nobody. I was going to wait a week. After all, a deal's a deal, and these guys might've been Natives, but they were always straight with me. But before the week was up…" he gestured to his leg.

John's leg stiffened in sympathy. "IED?" he asked.

Smalls chuckled. "Nah. Not that lucky. Army would've paid then. Besides, we had landmines 'stead of IEDs. I went in swimming. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Guess the alligators thought so too."

Sherlock's curiosity was piqued. "An alligator ate your leg?" He moved around the table and bent over a little, trying to get a better look at the leg. "How did you..." He gestured.

"Officer pulled me out, medic wrapped me up. Had to cut it off right there on the side of the river. Did a good job, I guess, but that was the end of my soldier days, and I still needed work. That's when I fell in with Morstan and Sholto. They was working security for DeBeers, y'know" – Sherlock nodded – "And they liked having a white African 'round to help out." He shifted his leg, but John wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable with his leg or with the direction of his story. Lestrade maintained an impassive gaze, a policeman's poker face, waiting patiently for him to continue.

"Well, it wasn't Sierra Leone or the Congo, but there was a fair amount of diamonds circulating in Angola in those days, and people were pretty desperate to keep hold of them. DeBeers folks bought up all the mines, just about, and them UNITA boys paid for their end of the war with the money. So me 'n Morstan and Sholto was all together in some backwater that doesn't even have a name, just us and a bunch of Natives. The Natives would dig out the stones, Morstan and Sholto ran the show, and I did whatever they needed doing. I cooked, I cleaned, I did some paperwork. Once a month, some company men would come around for a few days to distribute pay packets and collect diamonds, and they'd all sit around drinking and playing cards. I'd just watch, and I noticed that Morstan and Sholto both were losing a lot of money, every month. So finally, one day I asked Morstan about it, real casual-like, and he told me some sob story about his dead wife and his lost baby daughter in America and how he was tryin' to get enough money to find her. I didn't believe him, of course. Man like that has no business with a baby daughter."

John had to interrupt. "It was true, actually. We've met her. We know her. She's a good person, and you've taken her..." Lestrade put a calming hand on John's arm and shook his head, but it was the pressure of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder that quieted John.

"Well, I'm sure she is," replied Small, glancing between the men, a little confused by John's agitation. "Must take after her mother, then. Or maybe I misjudged Morstan. Hope not. You'd hate to have misjudged a man you killed, y'know?"

Lestrade cleared his throat, and Small took this as a cue to return to his narrative. "So, anyways, I figured he would have a chance to go off to Huambro and get the box, and I thought I'd bring him in on the deal. He told it all to Sholto. We talked it over, worked it out. I drew them a little map of the city, sketched how I hid the box in the church. Morstan and Sholto were supposed to go off on some company business or something, then come back for me. We'd divide things up, and retire rich men."

Lestrade prompted him, "But they double-crossed you."

"Sure they did. Off they went, and never came back. Worse'n that, they set up the paperwork so's the company men would think I'd been skimming, when it was them that was, trying to cover their bets. So I got sent back to South Africa and did a little time. Couldn't fight it. No point. It was in lockup that I met Kumsa." He gestured at John. "That's my mate you dropped in the river. Little man could be mean, but we trusted each other. After we got out, he and I worked ships, here and there, trying to get to England so I could get my treasure."

Sherlock filled in for him: "You found Morstan and killed him because he didn't have the diamonds."

Small nodded. "That I did. I figured he'd come to England to get with Sholto, and divide up my diamonds between them. I told him I'd go with him to Sholto and we could split it all, nice and even, just like we planned. But he wouldn't do it. I gathered that Sholto had crossed him, too, and he meant to get his bit and didn't care 'bout mine. Man wouldn't keep his word. Me 'n Kumsa did what needed doing, and put the man in the river. I kept looking for Sholto. I found him, too, but couldn't get to him in time. Died in bed, his boys around him." Small shook his head, regretful.

"We laid low and watched the place. Saw them dig all them holes, figured they didn't know what Sholto did with the box. Seeing as I didn't either, I just let them keep searchin'. Wouldn't do me no good to break in if there weren't no diamonds to be had. After they stopped digging, I watched closer. But it was Kumsa that figured it out, and we made our move on Friday. Kumsa didn't much like white people – can't say as I blame him – and he always was inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. He killed Sholto's boy before I had a chance to get in a word. We came to blows over it, actually; I just wanted to get the stones and get out, but Kumsa, he never missed a chance to kill a white man. I expect you lot know the rest, as you've been followin' me the last three days." He looked at Sherlock, who indeed had been following him the last three days, in one guise or another.

Lestrade reached a calming hand towards John before speaking. "The diamonds, then?"

"In the river, same as Kumsa, same as Morstan, same as the key. Figure it's not right, me having them, when those three what brought them to me can't have them either. Probably nobody should have them. No telling where they came from, or who was killed in the getting. River's the best place for them." Small was content with his story, and with his part in it; he crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.

John tilted his head, pursed his lips. He'd wanted to get Mary her diamonds, give her what he thought she needed, but Small's story changed his mind. Sherlock sat down at last, satisfied; all his observations and surmises had been borne out by the story. Lestrade was the only man of them who moved. He stood up, went to the door, and called for an officer, who came in and read the formal charges to Small, who placidly allowed himself to be led from the room. Lestrade leaned over to the recorder and spoke, "The interview is ended at—" he checked his watch, blinking at it "—3:32." He switched off the machine, murmured somberly to Sherlock and John, then went down the hall.

John looked at Sherlock. "Some story. I wonder what … Mary!" He'd forgotten about her, forgotten that she was watching them this whole time, forgotten that she'd heard that her father had deserved the death he'd received. Sherlock followed him out the door and down the hall, where they found Lestrade leaning in the doorway of the small observation room.

It was empty, except for the small jewelry box containing five loose diamonds.


End file.
